


We're Aiming Anywhere But Here

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: “Jesus.” Bellamy groans, rubbing at his face. “I feel like I should be counteracting this somehow, by, like, piling them with dried fruit snacks or something.” “You mean to tell me,” she asks, wide-eyed, “that you don’t have a freshly-cooked, highly nutritious meal hidden in your bag somewhere?”That earns her a glare, his tone sardonic when he goes, “Cute.” “My bad.” She grins, raising her hands in mock-surrender. “I assumed you had everything in that Mary Poppins bag of yours.” Clarke takes over the school’s soccer team. Bellamy volunteers to sponsor them, amongst other things. (Or: Bellamy as a soccer mom that Clarke definitely has a crush on).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with all that patented Bellarke Fluff, pretty much.

 

______________________________

In a completely bizarre twist of events, Clarke Griffin- art teacher to several middle schoolers, daughter of congresswoman Abigail Griffin and reigning beer pong champion over at Gina’s bar on fourth street- is now in charge of the girls soccer team.

As in,  _ sports. _

“Soccer,” Wells repeats, disbelief clear in his voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even  _ remotely  _ interact with a ball, let alone play a sport.”

“Hey! I resent that accusation.” She argues, planting a hand on her hip. “I play  _ some  _ sports. I joined the badminton club first year of college, remember?”

Wells gives a unattractive snort, edging away from her when she attempts to swat at him with a dishrag. “If memory serves me well, you dropped out of the team after two whole weeks of practice.”

“It was clashing with my debate team practice.”

“I think you meant your entire personality.” He mutters, which earns him an elbow in the ribs. “Okay, okay.” Wells concedes, laughing. “You know I’m not trying to bring you down or anything, right? I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

Huffing, she flops down onto the sofa, groaning in tandem with it as she sinks further down into the cushions. “I know. I was as surprised as you are when I found out, okay? But Raven’s taking a term off for her physiotherapy and everyone else is already involved with at least one extracurricular activity.”

He makes an agreeable noise, dropping down onto the seat next to hers. “I mean, I figured that you wouldn’t go into this voluntarily. Anything you have to do so far? Or is it more of a sitting on the bleachers and pretending to pay attention kind of variety?”

“I wish it was the latter.” She grumbles, tilting her chin up so she could stare aimlessly at the rotating ceiling fan. “I have to start looking for sponsors for the team. Raven claims it’s a thing they do every year.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be difficult to look for someone to sponsor a bunch of cute twelve year olds kicking a ball around.” Wells muses.

“That’s because the last time you interacted with a twelve year old was when  _ you  _ were twelve.” She points out, running her palm over her face. “Trust me, your reaction would be more inclined towards worry if you ever saw any of them play.”

And that’s not to say that the team is  _ terrible  _ or anything. Just — a little over enthusiastic. The Arkers had a running reputation for not having won a single game since their conception, accompanied with the tendency to acquire a myriad of injuries that ranged from ‘scrape on the knee’ to ‘broken pelvis.’ Nicely put? They were  _ spirited.  _ Not so nicely put? They were aggressively competitive but lacked the finesse to actually win.

Clarke’s pretty sure this means that she has her work cut out for her.

Still, she tries not to fret about it over the course of the week; opting to focus on finishing her lesson plan and drawing up a timetable for practices instead. It’s not like she has to anything to worry about, really, considering it’s the beginning of the school term and  _ everyone  _ knows that nothing gets done within the first two weeks.

Except it seems that Octavia Blake must have missed the memo somehow, because she’s marching up to Clarke’s desk with all the efficiency of a drill sergeant.

“Octavia.” She greets upon her approach, lacing her fingers together in what she assumes is a pleasant,  _ ready-to-listen _ sort of position. “What can I do for you?”

A beat passes, Octavia’s gaze sweeping from the flyaway strands she tucked behind her ears to her clasped, paint-stained hands; a wary appraisal. Then, as if reaching some sort of decision, she speaks. “You should talk to my brother about sponsoring us.”

Her brow arches up at that, involuntary, though she manages to compose herself just as quickly, schooling her expression into one of calm neutrality. “Your brother?”

“Yeah.” She replies, her voice decisive in a way that she didn’t think a twelve year old could even possess, “He works at the library.”

“The library.” Clarke echoes, feeling her last vestiges of hope trickle away. “Okay, well. We’re looking more into businesses, you see, places who will benefit-”

“I don’t mean that he works at the library as like, a bookkeeper or something.” She interjects, scowling. “I mean, I’m sure he does that too, but only because he wants to. He’s— a part of the management. He’s in charge of a lot of stuff there. Events. Funding.  _ Important  _ stuff.” She stresses, crossing her arms over her chest. “He can help. And I’m pretty sure the library has lots of money.”

There’s a part of her that’s almost tempted to correct her on that fact, but she resists the urge to. “Alright then,” she says instead, clearing her throat. “I’ll think about it. I take it that you’ve talked to him about this?”

Another pause as she considers this, brow crinkled and head cocked. “Not yet,” she says, a tad grudgingly. “But that’s because we’re not talking right now.”

The statement is said nonchalantly enough for Clarke to infer that it’s a pretty common occurrence of sorts. “Uh huh,” she manages, pasting a smile onto her face. “But you’ll talk to him about it soon?”

“I think it’s better if you go ahead and do it.” Octavia tells her brightly, body already angled away and poised to go, “You’re a lot more convincing than I am anyway.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She goes, her voice heavy with sarcasm that she doesn’t bother to conceal at this point. “From what I’ve seen, you can be pretty convincing yourself.”

The effect of it seems to be lost on her, from the restless tap of her foot against the ground, the swivel of her hip towards the door. Sighing, Clarke relents, waves her towards the door. “I’ll get back to you if anything comes from it.”

“Thanks.” She grins, turning away to rifle at her pack before producing a bright pink post-it note, slapping it down on her desk. “These are his working hours. I wouldn’t recommend going by on Thursday, though. The higher schoolers like to drop by then, and they vandalize the books sometimes which pisses him off.”

“Understandable,” she mutters, transferring the note into her day planner. “So, remind me again, who am I looking for when I get there?”

The only response she gets is the  _ thwack  _ of the door as it slams shut, the scuffle of feet against linoleum before Clarke finally gives into the urge to put her head down against her desk, letting loose a muffled groan against her arm.  _ Great. _

 

+

It only occurs to her that she could have looked him up on the school system when she’s actually  _ at  _ the library; wandering aimlessly between shelves of musty latin poetry and leatherbound architecture journals. 

Swearing under her breath, she deliberates leaving and coming back after, preferably with his name in tow- but the thought of making yet another trip out here gives her pause. It’s stupid and counterproductive, really, when she could just  _ ask _ someone for Octavia Blake’s brother. It’s not exactly hardship, or anything.

Still, she finds herself stalling, picking random books off the shelves and reading an excerpt or two. Her Latin is elementary at best and rusty from years of disuse so she finds herself mouthing the words, testing them against her tongue.

“Accitus,” she murmurs, frowning at how it sounds rolling off her lips, clumsy and unpracticed. “ _ Ahchitusus. _ ”

Someone gives a small, pointed cough at that and she startles, hands fumbling to keep the book in place before straightening.

“What?” She asks, mostly to be difficult, partially because she didn’t catch it in its entirety.

He arches a brow over at her before repeating the word, pronunciation perfect and accent flawless. There was something about the twitch of his jaw and the upturned corners of his eyes that hinted at amusement.

“Well,” she says, blithe, sliding the book back into place. “That’s what I said, right?”

“Oh, definitely.” He agrees, leaning back against the rusting frame of the shelf. “Need any help? Or is perusing latin poetry on a Saturday morning the kind of thing you do for fun?”

Eyeing him consideringly, her gaze catches on the name tag perched crookedly against his chest, a flash of gold and black and  _ Bellamy.  _ It’s a pretty name, soft even, completely at odds with the ripped, fraying flannel shirt and the wild tangle of curls atop his head.

“The former, actually.” Clarke admits, turning towards him. “I’m looking for someone? Uhm, brother of one Octavia Blake? I’m told that he works here.”

His fingers halt their relentless beat against his thigh, eyes narrowed when he asks, “You know, it would be a lot easier if you had a name for this guy, right?”

“I know.” She huffs, trying to rein in the spike of annoyance that surfaces at his tone. “Obviously. But uh, my student left in this big rush, and it seemed like a hassle to call her up and ask her about it when I could just come down here and ask around.”

The look in his eyes softens at that, lips curling into the smallest of smirks. “Your student sounds like a real handful.”

“At times.” She shrugs. “But it comes with the territory, and I like a challenge.”

“Yeah,” he says ruefully, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing marginally. “That sounds like my sister, alright.”

“Your sister,” she echoes, mind working frantically to make sense of it all, realization dawning and making her gape with it. “That means— so you’re Bellamy  _ Blake _ ?”

“The one and only.” He says, dry, nudging at the thick, black-framed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “How much trouble is she in for you to have to warrant a personal visit?”

She sighs. “Octavia’s not in trouble, Mr. Blake.”

His brows furrow at that, disapproving. “Bellamy is fine, really.”

“You should have told me so when I first asked.” She blurts out, wincing at accusatory note in her voice.

That gets a grin out of him, teeth showing and clearly pleased. “I was taking the necessary precautions until you revealed your intentions, okay? For all I know, you could have been a serial killer. Or one of those people who steals wallets and posts the contents up on the internet for kicks.”

“That’s how the internet  _ works  _ now?”

“According to what my sister, yeah.” He goes, giving a full-bodied shrug that causes the bookshelf to groan ominously under his weight. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure, uh,” he pauses, jerking his chin over at her questioningly.

“Clarke.” She tells him, wondering awkwardly if she should offer a hand out to shake before deciding against it. That would seem oddly formal, and something told her that Bellamy Blake would be distinctly against anything remotely  _ formal.  _ “Clarke Griffin, actually. I’m Octavia’s art teacher? But I’m also in charge of the girl’s soccer team this year.”

The crease between his brows seem to deepen a fraction. “I thought Raven was in charge of that.”

“Yeah, but she’s taking the term off. Somehow, this translated to getting the art teacher on board to manage the soccer team despite her complete lack of experience.”

“You seem to be doing okay so far.” He tells her, mild.

She can’t quite hold back a snort at that. “If by okay, you mean I haven’t completely screwed everything up yet, then sure.” Then, with a hasty shake of her head, “Sorry, I can’t believe I keep getting sidetracked. I meant to talk to you about sponsoring the Arkers.”

“As in,” he pauses for a beat, apprehensive. “Sponsoring my sister’s football team?”

“Not you  _ you,  _ exactly.” She interjects. “But the library? Your sister was the one who suggested it to me, actually.”

“Nice of her to give me a heads up.” He grumbles, fidgeting with the strap of his watch in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “Uh, do you need an answer right away? Because there’s probably a few people I have to discuss this with first.”

She blinks, tries valiantly not to let her surprise show. “I mean, no, but. Don’t you have any questions about this whole venture? Uh, lingering doubts?”

“I think I get the gist.” He says, teasing, flashing her yet another one of those smiles. “But, uh, you could leave me your number, and I could call you if I have any other questions.”

“Sure.”

He finds her a scrap of paper over by the reception desk, hovering patiently while she scratches her number out with a leaky ink pen, leaving behind a trail of blue smudges against the heel of her hand.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling a face when she sets the pen back in place, rubbing fruitlessly at the ink on her skin. “It does that sometimes. Everything in this library is pretty temperamental.” 

Her thoughts inadvertently drift over to the rusting metal shelves, the chairs with stuffing half leaking out of them, the spitting coffee machine positioned behind the small cafe area. “Yeah, I figured. It’s nice, though. Gives it color.”

His smile this time is warm, crooked. “I think so too.”

Her blush is instinctive, rising from her neck and making its way to her cheeks. Swallowing, she takes a pointed step back. “Anyway, I should be going. You know how to contact me. Or, well.” She gives a bashful shrug, tightening her grip on her messenger bag. “You could just ask Octavia. Use it as an excuse to get her to talk to you, you know?”

The lines of his mouth seems to sharpen at that, the curve of a knife’s edge, more of the familiar smirk she’s seen moments earlier. “I like the way you think, Clarke.”

 

+

Funnily enough, Raven is the one who thinks getting the library involved is a great idea. 

“I don’t see why not,” she points out absently, already distracted by the congealed lump of noodles of her plate. “The library isn’t exactly drawing in any crowds, and this is a good way to advertise themselves. Parents love that shit, you know? The concept of businesses supporting home-grown sports teams, that is. It’s  _ wholesome  _ and, uh—”

“Twee.” Clarke interjects, poking at her own plate halfheartedly. “Logically I get the whole theory behind it, but it seems stupid to go through all that trouble. The school had  _ contracts  _ drawn up.”

That gets a poorly concealed snicker out of Raven. “Did they make you sit through the powerpoint presentation too? The one with the animated effects from 1998?”

“They had the word sponsorship spelled out in rainbow colors.” She chirps, beaming with false enthusiasm. “And the bullet points were actually tiny soccer balls.”

“Classy.” She grins, nudging at her ankle under the table. “So what’s the problem? It’s not like the school is going to disapprove, it’s a  _ library.  _ You’re associating them with knowledge and education and crotchety old men tottering around with monocles held up to their faces.”

She can’t help but stare a little at that, thoughts drifting over to sun-warm skin and a splattering of freckles. “In a surprising turn of events, that’s, apparently, not how librarians look like now.”  

“Wait,” Raven demands, pitching forward on her elbows. “What?”

Startling, she backs up, squinting over at her suspiciously. A general rule of thumb is that nothing  _ good  _ ever comes out of situations where Raven has that fervent, almost maniacal look in her eye.

“You heard me the first time.” She shoots back, getting to her feet carefully.

Raven scoffs at that, twirling her hand exaggeratedly in the air. “No, I mean, wait,  _ what?  _ Clarke’s blushing at the mention of librarians and being really cryptic about it? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I told you that I made a trip down to the library to talk to the guy!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me that he’s cute.” She finishes, unbearably smug, hand planted on her hip in what is undoubtedly a  _ gotcha!  _ sort of gesture. Clarke rolls her eyes. “C’mon, you can’t keep me in suspense here. Is he cute?”

“He’s…” She manages a shrug, pulling at the loose thread hanging from her shirt. “Uh. A few levels above adequate, I guess.”

“Shit.” Raven breathes, rubbing at her jaw. “In Clarke speak, that means he’s supermodel level hot, right?”

She groans, burying her face in hands. “In Clarke speak, that means you should butt the hell out and not  _ interfere  _ with my love life.”

“I wasn’t planning to!”

“I recognize the signs.” She retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just— I don’t want you reading too much into this, okay? I think he’s cute. End of story.”

“Fine,” Raven declares, petulant. “I won’t. Now are you going to join me in googling him, or what?”

(It’s not all that much of a fruitful search considering his lack of a online presence, but they do fine out that he looks very nice in flannel. So, you know. Not a complete waste of time, or anything.)

 

+

Bellamy Blake calls her two days after, and the first thing he says to her is, “So what do you think of purple and gold?” 

Though there’s a distinct possibility that she could have heard him wrong, she still finds herself rubbing at her earlobe unconsciously anyway, tucking her hair out of the way. “What, now?”

“Purple and gold.” He goes, pensive,  _ distracted _ . “I think that’s a nice color scheme, right? Would look good on the uniforms?”

“Sure.” She goes, slow, dipping her chin and slotting her phone in the crevice between her neck and shoulder. “But you do know that the official school colors are blue and orange, right?”

He gives a muted curse, most of it lost in the crackle of static. “Like, what kind of blue? Cerulean? Because I’m not sure if that works with orange.”

“It works perfectly fine with orange.” She says, biting at her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Though I’m a little confused as to  _ why _ you’re worrying about this.”

“It’s fine.” He continues, rolling right past her question. “I’ll just have to call up the printing store and get the lettering changed. White text is going to a lot better with blue and orange, don’t you think?”

Steepling her fingers against her temple (where she can feel a migraine rapidly forming), she takes a deep breath, composing herself. “Honestly, Bellamy? I don’t have an opinion on that.”

That seems to get his attention, at least. “Really? I had you pegged as someone who had an opinion on everything.”

“I mean, I do.” She says pointedly, sinking down onto the nearest surface she could find, “But I’m mostly just confused by this series of events. Does this mean you’re up for the sponsorship? That you’ve talked to the relevant people and got it all worked out? Or are you just really invested in soccer uniforms?”

There’s a lengthy, rather awkward pause before he speaks. “Shit. I forgot to call you up to tell you about it.”

It’s a difficult to repress the bubble of laughter that rises in her throat at that, her best attempt producing a strangled sound that she’s  _ positive  _ could pass off as a cough. “Hey, it’s okay. Easy mistake to make.”

“Shut up.” Bellamy grumbles, though it sounds good natured more than anything. “It slipped my mind, okay? But, yeah. I’m on board with this. Well, technically the library is, but you know what I mean.”

“Kind of.” She quips, rising to her feet so she could pace. (Something about the conversation made her feel restless, all adrenaline and thundering pulse). “You’re being really confusing, though. So you might have to explain it to me all over again.”

He snorts. “Cute. Anyone ever tell you that you have a twisted sense of humor?”

“Only about eighty percent of the people I know.” She grins, resting her head against the cool glass of the windowpane. “Anyway, I’m going to be emailing you a couple of official forms to sign, contracts, yadda yadda. I would advise you to get someone in the legal field to look it over, but I’m hoping you won’t so I can secretly scam you of your life’s fortune.”

“You’re not going to be rolling in the dough even if that happens.” He mutters. “But, yeah, sure. I’ll text you my email address. Are you going to need me at practices, meets, stuff like that? Or is it more of like a, I don’t know, a consultancy role?”

“More of the latter than the former.” She tells him, tapping at the line splintering across the glass of her window, grimacing at the sound. “You can come by whenever you want to, but it’s not necessary or anything. It’s really not going to take up all that much of your time.”

“Right.” He replies, sounding strangely crestfallen by this revelation. “Cool. Got it. Thanks, Clarke.”

And she’s not sure what possesses her to say it, really, but the next thing she knows she’s telling him, “You should probably stick with black.”

Another pause. Then, echoing her words back to her, “What, now?”

“The lettering on the jersey.” She mumbles, running a palm over her face. “Stick to black lettering. Stands out more against all the colors.”

She can practically feel him mulling it over the line, brow furrowed just like the last time.

“Good call.” He says finally, and she can practically hear the smile in his voice when he asks, “You free? Because I’d love to get your opinion on the practice schedules too.”

Humming her agreement, she settles back onto her chair, kicking her legs up to get comfortable. “Yeah, Bellamy. I have time.”

 

+

The first practice of the semester goes exactly like how Clarke pictured it to be: terribly, that is.

She forgets the keys to the equipment shed, for one, so that’s twenty minutes of practice wasted on running to the administrative building to get a copy. Then Monroe trips over her cleats fifteen minutes into practice and has to be escorted into the medbay, leaving the team unsupervised for all of ten minutes which of  _ course  _ leads to a all-out brawl by the time she gets back.

Suffice to say, everyone is pretty relieved by the time practice draws to a close.

Taking a deep breath, she summons the most chipper voice she can muster under the circumstances, jaw already hurting from the strain of keeping a smile on her face. “Great job, you guys. I think we’re primed for the championships this year after a few more practices under our belt.”

The statement is met with blank looks on their part; a barely contained eyeroll on Octavia’s.

“Okay,” she relents, pinching at the bridge of her nose to stave away the rapidly forming headache, “fine, so maybe we have our work cut out for us. But I think with some hard work and  _ cooperation,  _ we can get there.”

It’s not exactly the most inspiring pep talk of all time, but she catches a few murmurs of assent after, accompanied with several hasty head nods. Not her best effort, really, but at least she’s managed to restore team morale to a certain extent. Flashing them a final, tight smile, she waves them off, making sure to keep an eye on them as they barrel off the field and into the locker room.

Only then does she allow herself to let loose a string of muttered curses, kicking at the loose clumps of grass with the edge of her too-tight cleats (a pair of Raven’s hand-me-downs), before flopping down onto the ground.

Exhaling gustily, she closes her eyes against the glare of the sun, tries to focus on the warmth of the sun on her skin instead. Anything but how disastrous practice was, the harsh pierce of the whistle in the air or the thump of the ball striking metal. Why did sports have to require so much  _ effort _ ?

“Fuck soccer.” She mumbles against the crook of her arm, skin tasting of sweat and earth and salt.

“Sounds like a terrible idea already.” A voice says, low and amused.

Cracking her eyelids open, she props herself up on her elbows, glaring up at him. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a twisted sense of humor?”

Bellamy grins down at her, offering her a outstretched hand which she swats away carelessly, struggling to her own feet. “Oh come on,” he says, cajoling, “I could have opened with a dirty joke, which is incrementally worse.”

“Don’t hold your breath waiting for a thank you.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He declares solemnly, falling into step next to her. “So, I take it that the first day wasn’t exactly ideal?”

She chokes back a laugh at that, wiping at the sweat gathered by her brow. “I was aiming for  _ tolerable,  _ actually, but somehow we managed to fall short of that too.”

That gets a sympathetic look out of him. “I want to say I’m surprised, but I’ve been going to my sister’s games for years. I know firsthand how terrible twelve year olds are.”

“They’re  _ twelve _ ,” she grouses. “What is there to fight about, even? Who has the better stickers? Who, I don’t know, has the nicer  _ lunchbox _ ?”

He gives a sharp bark of laughter, turning to face her. “I think they’re more inclined to fight about which member from a boyband is the best, actually. But in the case of the Arkers, it’s probably something to do with someone’s terrible passing skills, or if they should attempt to try out a Cryuff turn.”

“No.” She says, automatic, shaking her head hastily. “I don’t even know what that is, but I don’t want them to attempt it.”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t want  _ that. _ ” He tells her, mocking, sobering just as quickly when he catches sight of the expression on her face. “But, hey. Don’t stress yourself out about this. It’s supposed to be  _ fun,  _ Clarke. As in, a after school activity. Definitely not the world cup or anything along those lines.”

“I know.” She says, scrubbing at her face furiously with the heel of her hand. “I just don’t want to completely screw up, you know? These girls, well. They really care about their team. They  _ want  _ to win.”

“And you’ll get them there.” Bellamy says, firm, with no room for argument whatsoever. “Eventually. Now if you want to score some brownie points with them, I have a couple of juice boxes at the back of my van. Just hand them out while they’re leaving, and I promise you that they’ll love you for it.”

She stares, regaining her senses just in time to dart in front him, planting herself firmly in his path and stopping him in his tracks. “You came all the way down to give me a couple of juice boxes and  _ advice _ ?”

“Correction: I came all the way out here to pick Octavia up after school.” He tells her, with a contemplative tilt of his chin. “The juice boxes and the advice was kind of a convenience thing, actually. Though I’m thinking that I should have really kept that to myself to score some brownie points with  _ you _ .”

“Funny.” She says, even though her face is practically  _ blazing  _ red, at this point. “You agreed to sponsor the team, remember? Plus, you designed the new uniforms, so. I think you’re pretty good at the points front here.”

His laugh is soft, muffled from when he dips his chin down to his collarbone, suddenly shy. It’s stupidly endearing and Clarke has to turn her face away to keep from doing something completely impulsive, like reaching over to tip it up with her fingers.

“Okay.” Bellamy says, smiling. “Just checking.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She manages, working to keep her tone breezy and absolutely nonchalant. “You’ll rise higher in the ranks if you handed me the juice boxes now, you know.”

“They’re in my car.” He reminds her, retrieving his keys from his pocket before dropping it into her open palm. “Right in the boot, you can’t miss it.”

Giving a slow, drawn out whistle, she loops the keyring around her finger, twirling it carefully. “Wow, Blake. You trust me with a car like  _ this _ ? I could take it and run, you know.”

He rolls his eyes at that, the motion only highlighting the sudden, uncanny resemblance between him and his sister. “It’s a mini-van, Clarke. I’d pay you to rob my car.”

“I’m telling the judge that when they persecute me in court.”

“I’ll be laughing at you from the front seat of my new ferrari.” He muses, his hand light against the small of her back when he propels her forward, towards the direction of the array of parked cars. “See you in a bit.”

“I’ll be the one swarmed by a bunch of excited twelve year olds!” She calls out, raising her hand to shoot him a brief wave before walking away, the sound of his surprised laugh trailing her the entire way there.

 

+

Logically, Raven would be a better choice for this but her leg has been bothering her more often than not lately and, considering the last team practice? Well, yeah, Clarke is in  _ dire  _ need of assistance. 

“This is a terrible idea,” she huffs out, stumbling over her own feet and dropping down onto the grass gracelessly. “Jesus. Okay, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t  _ want  _ to learn the game. I want nothing to do with this game.”

There’s a brief tap against her ribs, more of a nudge than anything. “It’s literally been five minutes.” Wells points out, and faintly, she can make out the sound of him setting the ball back against the grass, lining it up for her. “C’mon. You’re doing it for the sake of the team. Think of all those twelve year old girls, staring up at you adoringly.”

“The likelihood of that happening is close to zilch.” She snaps, pushing herself up on her palms. “I thought soccer meant just kicking the ball into a  _ net.  _ There aren’t supposed to be so many stupid rules.”

She can practically sense his exasperation from across the field. “Just kick the ball, won’t you?”

“I’m picturing this as your head!” She manages, saccharine sweet before kicking it, hard, watching it sail past the net and barrel down the length of the field instead.

He winces. “That wasn’t as bad as the last attempt.”

“At least I didn’t hit anyone this time.”

“That’s a low, low bar.” Wells mutters, breaking out into a jog to fetch the ball. “So, what’s up?” He asks, upon his return. “The last time I checked, you sort of hinted that you were not all that invested in this entire thing.”

Wrinkling her nose, she lines up the shot once more, tries to angle her foot the way Wells told her to. “I mean, yeah, but. These girls actually care, you know? I’ll be a fucking awful person to stand in the way of them winning. I have to  _ try. _ ”

“Fair enough.” He tells her, though she hears the distinct note of approval in his voice. “Any progress so far?”

“Uh, my friend suggested juice boxes the last time, so they don’t hate me all that much anymore. I think.”

“A friend, huh?” Wells goes, sly, wiggling his eyebrows.

She shoots him a glare before directing her attention to the ball once more, lining up her shot. “If you manage to teach me to score a single goal by the end of the day, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Cool.” He grins, bounding back to place at the goalkeeper’s position with renewed vigor. “Remember, anywhere  _ but  _ the face.”

“Aim for the face?”

“Don’t even joke about this, Clarke!”

Grinning, she draws her leg back, launching it forward and across the grass.

 

+

Turns out that twelve year olds aren’t all that different from twenty year olds, in the sense that one their biggest motivators for achieving  _ anything  _ involved the presence of food. 

More specifically, pizza.

Propping her clipboard up against her knees, she jots down the last of the orders along the margins, throws in a doodle of a smiley face for good measure. “So that’s an order for three pepperonis, one cheese, and two sausage, am I right?”

“Yeah.” Monroe goes, nodding fervently. “Harper wants anchovies on hers, but she’s outvoted.”

“Good call.” She mutters, ignoring the brief murmur of discontent rumbling through the ranks. “Alright, so you guys know the deal: if you guys make it out of practice without fighting about  _ anything  _ whatsoever- you guys are getting pizza. If not, you can kiss all those greasy slices of heaven goodbye. Are we clear?”

The resounding chorus of assent in response to that is reassuring, to say the least, her mood only improving when they actually make it through the entirety of practice without so much as a raised voice. Honestly, she would be surprised if she wasn’t already aware of the effect pizza often had on people. Herself included.

Clarke dials out at the five minute mark, repeats the order all whilst herding the team towards the locker room. In the distance, she can vaguely make out the scattering of people lingering by the steps, the bright blue of trashcans being wheeled away, a familiar mini-van glinting silver under the sun.

She hesitates- if only for a moment- before darting away, slipping past the girls, weaving through the small cluster of trees until she emerges in the parking lot, feeling vaguely unsettled but sure all the same, bending over to knock lightly at the car window.

Jerking in his seat, he relaxes when he spots her, reaching over to unwind the window. “You’re not trying to give me a heart attack, are you? Because the van’s going to Octavia, at my untimely demise. Not you. I have it all drawn up in my will.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.” She sighs, peering over at him. “So I know you’re anxious to grab Octavia and go, but I just thought I should warn you that she’s going to take a while. I ordered them celebratory pizzas.”

Bellamy cocks his head over at her, curious. “Right. What are you guys celebrating again?”

“Everyone emerging from practice unscathed for once.”

_ Wow,  _ he mouths, exaggerated in a way that was impossible to miss, the ends of it tailing off to a sharp whistle. “If that isn’t worth celebrating, I’m not sure what is.”

“Very funny.” She manages, clucking her tongue at him disapprovingly. “I was actually going to invite you in for a slice, but I think I’ve changed my mind.”

He brightens at that, straightening in his seat. “Yeah, I could eat.”

“I think you’re forgetting the part where I  _ disinvited  _ you.” She says in the prissiest voice she can muster, ducking her head to hide her grin behind a curtain of hair at the pleading look on his face. “Okay, fine, whatever. Stay for one slice.”

Grinning over at her, he cuts the engine, unbuckling his seatbelt after in a single, fluid motion. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the greatest?”

“Only the ones trying to curry favor with me to get free pizza.”

“I mean, you’re not  _ wrong. _ ”

They bicker the entire time it takes to travel to the locker room, paying off the pizza guy hovering by the entrance before passing the boxes off to the girls, swiping the lone box of cheese for themselves. Bellamy insists on laying down a couple of mats (“There could be  _ fire ants  _ in the grass, Clarke!”) and bug-spray for everyone (“How much stuff do you have in your car, exactly, Bellamy?”) before he finally relaxes, sprawling out on the mat with his head angled towards the rapidly setting sun.

It doesn’t take her all that long to realize that it’s  _ nice  _ talking to him, easy too, effortless in a way that she didn’t think she could achieve with someone outside of her usual friend circle. Even arguing with him felt natural somehow, an extension of their usual bantering and quips that occasionally led to crossed arms and raised eyebrows but also a compromise of sorts, always reaching a middle ground that they could both plant themselves on.

It’s infuriating and engaging and fun all at once, something she didn’t think she could find in _anyone,_ really. (This was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating; finding someone whose pieces lined up against hers perfectly without even trying.)

She doesn’t realize how much time has passed until Octavia draws up behind them, clearing her throat loudly and effectively disrupting their debate on the whole star wars parentage debacle (he’s thinking Skywalker, she’s guessing Kenobi, but at least they can both agree that she’s probably not a Solo).

“Sorry,” Bellamy goes, clearly startled at the interruption, the word a reflex more than anything. “Is this your way of telling me that you’re done here?”

“Pretty much.” Octavia declares, blunt, her gaze roving from him to Clarke and back again. “I don’t mind sticking around though, if you want to finish up your conversation.” The words are laced with teasing, sly and scrutinizing, and she can’t help but flush a tad under it, edging away from Bellamy as surreptitiously as she can.

“It’s fine.” She manages, purposefully nonchalant. “I think we’re good here.”

He hums his agreement, woefully oblivious to the smug look on Octavia’s face. “I take it that you’ve got your fill of pizza, considering the state of grease on your mouth. Tissue?”

She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Hey, it’s not like pizza is a common occurrence where  _ I’m  _ from. No one else lives with an overbearing big brother who looks up the nutritional value of everything he buys.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re sixty and not feeling the effects of old age.” He retorts, absentminded in the way that suggested this was a common line of argument. “Just tell me you didn’t pick the vegetables off all your slices.”

“There wasn’t any vegetables to pick off.” She announces, triumphant, vaguely reminiscent of someone who had just played their winning move on a chessboard. “Pepperoni, Bell. Sausage. Everything with a healthy amount of saturated fat on it.”

He turns to look over at her instead, mouth dropping open to gape. “You didn’t get anything with  _ vegetables  _ on it?”

The statement is said with enough horror and disbelief to suggest that Clarke had committed a great crime of sorts. Shrugging helplessly, she manages a weak, “Well, it’s  _ pizza.  _ No one really eats vegetables on pizza.”

“Jesus.” Bellamy groans, rubbing at his face. “I feel like I should be counteracting this somehow, by, like, piling them with dried fruit snacks or something.”

“You mean to tell me,” she asks, wide-eyed, “that you  _ don’t  _ have a freshly-cooked, highly nutritious meal hidden in your bag somewhere?”

That earns her a glare, his tone sardonic when he goes, “Cute.”

“My bad.” She grins, raising her hands in mock-surrender. “I assumed you had everything in that Mary Poppins bag of yours.”

“Car.” He says, sounding distinctly put out. “I keep all that stuff in my  _ car.  _ And it’s for emergencies only!”

“Sure,” she says, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing. It’s a little hard to hold onto her restraint especially after she meets Octavia’s gaze, both of them exchanging amused, commiserating looks. “I’ve never been in a situation where organic apple juice didn’t help.”

Octavia cracks at that, bursting into a cackle loud enough to startle the rest of the girls, the birds perched in the safety of the trees. A high five is offered accompanied with the glint of teeth, a rare, genuine smile; all while Bellamy stomps off, muttering darkly about calorie count and meal planning and that’s how  _ he ended up with a bad back, dammit _ .

 

+

**BELLAMY:** You know what’s a healthier option than pizza? 

**BELLAMY:** Focaccia, Clarke. You can load it up with all these tomatoes and parsley and they won’t even notice that they’re eating vegetables because they’re too busy being impressed by how the bread tastes even better than pizza.

**BELLAMY:** Ask Octavia. That’s how I curbed her incessant pizza cravings.

**CLARKE:** If memory serves, curbing isn’t exactly the word I’d use in relation to Octavia and pizza.

**BELLAMY:** She’s not asking for pizza five days a week now, so I’d say that it’s a win.

**CLARKE:** Eh. Still unconvinced.

**BELLAMY:** Oh my god. I’ll make you a batch, okay? You’ll be convinced after.

**CLARKE:** Cool. I always support the whole concept of free food. That’s what love thy neighbour really  _ means,  _ you know?

**CLARKE:** Anyway Thursday at 5pm is good for me.

**BELLAMY:** Fine by me too. Send me your address.

**BELLAMY:** And be prepared to be blown away, Griffin. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

+

In hindsight, stomping into Raven’s apartment all whilst yelling at the top of her lungs about how she messed up  _ probably  _ isn’t the best way to make an entrance. 

Raven swears the second she slams the door open, the force of it upending the precariously stacked heap of scrap metal and sending it flying to the ground, her yelp lost in the clatter of metal striking against wood.

Wincing, she pauses, hand still poised on the door knob. “Shit. Will you feel better if I turned around and made myself scarce?”

“No.” She grumbles, kicking at a stray, bent-out-of-shape piece. “You  _ can  _ pick it up for me while I sit around and drink lemonade though.”

“Fair trade.” Clarke shrugs, dropping into a squat so she could grapple at the scattered pieces. “I don’t care as long as you’re willing to put up with me whining about how inept I am at everything.”

“So in Clarke-speak, that roughly translates to: please help me flirt with this boy that I really like, but won’t  _ admit  _ that I like, right?”

Sputtering, she tries valiantly to assume an expression of righteous indignation. “That’s not what this is about!”

“Sure,” Raven goes, conversational. “I’m sorry, I meant it’s about the guy whom’s sponsoring the girls football team you’re in charge of, whom you have purely  _ platonic  _ feelings for. Right. My bad.”

“Friend.” She grumbles, dumping her first load onto the table. “You could have just said friend.”

“Well, at least you’re admitting to  _ that _ .”

“There’s nothing else to admit.” She declares stubbornly, flopping down into the seat next to hers. “Look, finding someone objectively cute doesn’t equate to feelings. It just doesn’t, okay?”

That earns her one of Raven’s legendary side-eyes, considering but exasperated all at once. “But you’re saying that it  _ could  _ lead to feelings down the road, yes?”

She opens her mouth to argue, lips already forming the words necessary for a counterattack- finds herself saying instead, “I don’t know. I think so.”

“You know so.” Raven corrects.

“That’s— Okay, not the point. The point is I may have unintentionally asked him out. Read: unintentionally.”

“More like subconsciously,” she beams, grinning over at her as she leans back against her chair. “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Oh my god,” she announces, letting her hands fall against her thighs with a considerable  _ thwack.  _ “Why do I even talk to you about things? You’re not helpful. At all.”

“Alright, alright.” Raven relents, straightening in her seat, her version of sitting-up-and-paying-attention, apparently. “Start from the beginning. How did you ask him out again?”

“Unintentionally.” She stresses, reaching for her phone. “ _ Unintentionally. _ ”

To her credit, she doesn’t interrupt throughout the entire story, nodding at the appropriate intervals or simply arching her brow at the more questionable points. It’s more self control than Clarke ever thought Raven could ever exhibit, really, so she’s almost expecting an explosion of sorts when she’s done.

Instead, she’s met with silence.

“I don’t get it,” Raven says finally, sounding genuinely confused. “So, you  _ don’t  _ want to go out with him?”

“No,” she groans, slumping forward so she could bury her face in her hands. “That’s not what I’m saying either. I’m not  _ opposed  _ to going out with him. It’s just— I didn’t plan it, okay? It was an accident.”

“Okay, fine, so call it a happy accident.” Raven shrugs, completely unfazed. “Whatever label you want to slap on it to convince yourself that it’s not a date.”

“It’s  _ not  _ a date.” She insists, folding her arms across her chest.

Raven pats at her hair soothingly, the motion patronizing and comforting all the same. “Sure, babe. Whatever makes you feel better.”

 

+

He shows up with a bunch of crumpled daisies in his fist and tupperwares full of focaccia and they spent a disproportionate amount of time arguing instead of watching the movie before them, food balanced on their knees and elbows grazing. 

_ Not a date,  _ she reminds herself, rubbing at the skin of her ankle, warm to touch from how it had been resting against his all day.

_ Not a date,  _ she chants, tearing her gaze away from the divot in his chin, the flash of teeth when he throws his head back, laughing.

_ Not a date,  _ she tells herself, fingers grazing against the arch of his mouth and the space between teeth and tongue as she feeds him a torn chunk of focaccia, looking away before he could catch her blush.

He pauses at her doorstep before leaving, unsure, a little shy. “This was fun.”

“Yeah,” she replies, leaning up against the doorframe. “We should do this again. Next week?”

It’s  _ not  _ a date. (It definitely is a date.)

 

+

Things are different, after that. 

He stops arriving at the end of practices, starts coming by five minutes into it instead, bearing boxes of food and water and the occasional book, just in case. Her insistence that he just sit back and  _ relax,  _ preferably, is often met with a withering look or outright scorn; content to pace by the sidelines and huff worriedly instead, muttering about the girls  _ form  _ and  _ grass allergies  _ and  _ should they set out aloe vera for burns, just in case?  _

“For the last time,” she hisses, on the days where he’s pretty much unbearable, “the girls are  _ fine,  _ okay? They had a water break five minutes ago. Now sit down and shut up, or go make yourself useful elsewhere.”

He peers over at her from between his lashes, considering. “Are  _ you  _ dehydrated?”

“No.” She insists, furiously slashing out the latest practice scores. “I’m fine.”

Still, she always find a bottle of water and a peanut butter cookie balanced on her clipboard after anyway; poking her tongue out at him when she finds him eyeing her rather smugly, crumbs on her face and powering through her bottle. (Practice is a lot more bearable after that.)

Then there are the days when she looks him up instead, sparing a trip out to the library with her sketchbook tucked under her arm and a cup of coffee in hand.

He always finds her first, curled up in one of the armchairs or by the window, sketching or jotting out lesson ideas in the margins with a chai tea latte resting next to her. She discovers, later, that it’s always easier for him to spot her than it is for her to actively search for him. He has book club with seniors on Mondays and workshops with his staff on Wednesdays and Thursdays are always the worst because of some sort of mandatory reading programme he has set up with the local high school. He’s always discouraged on those days, ambling over to her more often than not, butting against her shoulder with his forehead and demanding her attention as he goes on a tangent about those  _ damned high school kids, fucking vandals all of them. _

Saturdays are the best, spent skulking along the children’s section until Bellamy’s storytelling segment comes on. Clarke likes to find a seat by the back, or in the next aisle over, close enough to see him but far away enough to be unobtrusive. It’s always nice to see him in his element, to be soothed by the cadence of his voice and the richness of his laugh. He had a way of talking, a kind of presence that made you sit up and pay attention; a distraction in the best possible way. She realizes that it’s easy to pick up on things after awhile- all these little things about him-like how he talked with his hands when he got excited, how she could pick out the lilt in his voice when he was talking about his favorite greek heroes. She liked that she could read him, could pick out the hitch in his voice when he was narrating stories from the old filipino myths and  _ know  _ that it meant that he missed home, could notice the twitch by the corners of his mouth that meant he was holding back on a laugh, tongue pressing against cheek.

And on the particularly long, exhausting days, she falls asleep even before he’s finished, fingers curled around her charcoal and sketchbook propped open on her knees. He never wakes her up on days like these, and she’d find him seated next to her a few hours after, reading or dozing alongside her, breaths even and steady and skin warm against hers.

She finds him exactly like this when she wakes up, curled up next to her with a book open in his lap, chest rising and falling with each breath as he snores against her hair. Smiling to herself (just a little), she twists her torso to poke him in the ribs none too gently. “Wake up.”

He lets out a unattractive snort, cracking an eye open to look over at blearily. “What?”

She makes a sound of mock disapproval. “You’re sleeping on the job again.”

“Don’t care.” Bellamy mutters, yawning as he stretches his arms over his head lazily. “Besides, you started it. Don’t you know that peer pressure is a thing, Clarke? You hang around kids all the time. You should know.”

“I’m sorry, who was the one who had a whole bunch of four year olds crawling all over him just hours ago?”

“They’re five.” He sighs, as if it made all the difference in the world. Then, sobering slightly, “I didn’t think you’d come by today. Yesterday was a pretty gruelling practice for you and the girls.”

“True,” she says, wincing at the jolt of pain that shoots up her spine when she straightens. “But, well.” The words come to mind, unbidden, and she’s not sure what compels her to say it: maybe it’s the trickle of rain hitting the roof, the heat emanating from his skin. The softness in his eyes when he looks over at her. “Maybe I just really wanted to see you, that’s all.”

He doesn’t say anything back, not right away, at least- just holds her gaze steadily before reaching over, fingers grazing the ends of her hair lightly and rubbing the strands between his fingers, affectionate.

She can feel her breath stutter in her chest, light headed with the proximity, and  _ oh,  _ she thinks, leaning into his touch,  _ this is what it means to be filled with light. _

“Yeah,” Bellamy says finally, dropping his hand back onto his lap. “I always like seeing you too.”

 

+

Two months of quasi-dating and several football practices later, Clarke is suddenly and stupidly aware of the paradigm shift in the supposed platonic nature of their relationship. 

Well, to be more specific, the revelation that her feelings for him bordered more on the romantic, I-want-to-be-with-you-all-the-time spectrum.

“Fine,” she concedes, marching back into Raven’s apartment where she and Wells are currently sprawled over the couch, limbs askew and watching some documentary about science that Clarke had zero interest in. “So maybe I do  _ like  _ Bellamy more than I should. There. I admitted it.”

“I think you’re forgetting that the statement is normally followed with a plea,” Well goes, mild. “Namely, for us to help you since you’re clearly terrible at this.”

Pointedly ignoring the smirk on Raven’s face, she gives a dramatic huff, slumping down into the free space next to them. “Please?”

“Only because you asked so nicely.” Raven sighs, clearly placated from the way she wiggles closer, dropping her head against her shoulder. “Alright, now talk. What’s been going on with you guys?”

“I don’t— god, I wish I knew.” She gives a humorless laugh at that, closing her eyes. “He snuck up on me, you know? In all the moments in between, soft and quiet and  _ easy,  _ and now I can’t  _ see  _ myself being with anyone else. It’s like I’ve been standing out in sea the entire time, being buffeted by all these tiny waves, and he just comes out of nowhere and knocks the earth out from under me. Just— fuck.”

Wells makes an agreeable noise, drumming his fingers against her knee. “Well, fuck indeed.”

“Don’t just say that,” she pleads, wiggling closer. “You guys are supposed to be telling me what to do about this, okay?”

There’s a moment of pause, the blare of the TV loud enough to be distracting as she stares resolutely up at the ceiling, holding back on the strange, stupid urge to cry. Raven cards her fingers through her hair, patient. Wells reaches over to hit the mute button on the remote.

“You already know what you have to do,” Raven says, quiet, fingers slowing before stopping entirely, reaching down to rest on her shoulder instead. “I think you know that you’ve been running from this for a while now.”

The scoff that leaves her lips is involuntary, a reflex, and she pats at Raven’s wrist to assure her that it’s not personal. “With a track record like mine when it comes to relationships? I’d say that it’s pretty normal.”

Wells shrugs, reasonable as always. “You can’t help that the people you date are dicks. Is Bellamy?”

She stops to consider this. “Kind of? I mean, not in the way the others were, I guess. He’s persnickety and grouchy and has like, this  _ complex  _ where he has to take care of everybody. He reads stuff in archaic latin, for like, funsies. He labels every single one of his tupperwares and he thinks casserole is something everyone should learn to make. One time, he snapped at a PTA mom because she didn’t return his crock pot after a month.” It only occurs to her that she’s  _ smiling  _ when she feels the bite of her teeth against her bottom lip, the sting snapping her out of her thoughts. “Oh my god, he’s such a  _ nerd. _ ”

“Oh my god,” Raven agrees, nonchalant. “I’m pretty sure you’re in love with him.”

Wells smacks at her ankle lightly, chiding. “Are you  _ trying  _ to freak her out?”

“How is that—”

“Guys,” she interjects, weary. “It’s fine. I’m not freaking out.”

And it’s true, mostly, because the panic and unease from before seems to have faded away, white noise to the steadiness of her thoughts. It was finally putting a word to a feeling, identifying something that had evaded her for months, a relief of sorts. A realization:  _ that’s who he is  _ and _ that’s who he is to me. _

Getting to her feet, she dusts herself off, squeezes at Raven’s shoulder. “Thanks for all your help, you guys.”

Wells cocks a brow at her, mouth tugging upwards into a smile; already knowing the answer but asking anyhow. “Where are you going?”

Her exhale is shaky, loud in the sudden quiet of the room. “I’m going to go tell him.”

 

+

The thing is, Clarke  _ does  _ have the address to Bellamy’s (and by extension, Octavia’s) apartment, but it seems pretty creepy to show up without warning and so she settles for intercepting him at the library instead. 

He’s bundling something into the boot of his car when she arrives, out of breath and hands still trembling from the knowledge of what she’s about to do. Sucking in a deep breath of air, she shoves her hands into her pockets, clenching them into fists before calling out, “Bellamy!”

He turns around, brow arched, breaking out into a smile when he realizes it’s her. “Hey,” he says as she draws up next to him, fingers clammy and pulse thundering in her ears, “this is a surprise. What’s up?”

“Uh.” She manages a awkward laugh, hanging back on her heels. “I just- I wanted-” Her gaze catches on the bundle of fabric balanced precariously between two towering piles of books, a flash of orange and blue. “Wait, is that what I think it is?”

His answering grin is wide, excited. “If by it, you mean the girls uniforms? Then definitely.”

“ _ Finally. _ ”

“It’s worth the wait!” He argues, reaching into the pile and pulling one out. “See? They got the lettering just right. I was worried that it wouldn’t show up in all the colors.”

And mostly because she can’t resist, “Honestly though, what would you have done if the uniforms weren’t done to your exact specifications? Marched down there to yell at them about it? Wrote a sternly worded letter?”

Bellamy huffs, snatching the uniform from her. “I wouldn’t have  _ yelled _ .” He declares primly. “I mean, I would be upset but I wouldn’t be mad or anything.”

“So, you wouldn’t have just raised your voice a little? Just a fraction?”

“I would have been super fucking civilized.” He grumbles, folding the uniform back up neatly and dropping it onto the pile. “You know, I actually got something for you, but now I’m not so sure that I want to give it to you.”

Assuming a expression of mock dismay, she loses it just as quickly when she catches a glimpse of his stony expression, breaking off into a laugh instead. “Oh, come on. You can’t just dangle that in front of me and not show me!”

He hums out a noncommittal sound, though the upturned corners of his mouth give him away. “I don’t know. You’re not being especially convincing or anything.”

“Oh my god, Bellamy.”

“Fine,” he relents, shoving at her shoulder lightly. “Okay, okay. Back up, it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

His excitement is infectious, her nerves from before sliding away as she takes a pointed step back. “Should I close my eyes too?”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” He mumbles, pressing a wad of fabric into her open palm.

For a minute, she can only stare, the pieces only coming together when she unravels it between her fingers; the matching colors, the bold **GRIFFIN** written on the back.  _ Coach,  _ it says on smaller script directly below it.

Blinking, she lifts her head. “You got me a shirt too?”

He looks a little embarrassed at that, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Because you’re part of the team too, you know? So I thought—”

She catches the exact moment he loses his breath, staggering under her weight when she throws her arms around him, squeezing. He recovers quickly enough, laughing against her ear before he goes, wry, “You liked it  _ that  _ much?”

“I love it.” She breathes, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s just- you should have one, too. You’re a part of this team just as much as I am.”

His shoulders rise at that, a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it  _ does _ .” She insists, only pulling back far enough so she could look him in the eye. “We’re in this together, okay? I wouldn’t have been able to pull any of this off without you. We’re- we’re a  _ team,  _ Bellamy. All this? We did it together.  _ Both  _ of us. We’re like,” she fumbles for a word, grasps at the first she thinks of usessly. “Co-leaders, you know? Leaders in our own right.”

He glances over at her, throat bobbing when he swallows, hard. “You really think so?”

It’s only then she realizes how close they are to each other, his breath ghosting across her cheekbone and making her shiver with it. The moment feels quiet somehow, sacred, as if a loud noise or a wrong move could tilt them off balance entirely. She reaches up to cup his face gently, thumb pressing down at the muscle that flutters by his jaw.

“Yeah, Bellamy.” She manages, closing her eyes. “I really think so.”

And she’s not sure who moves first but they’re  _ kissing,  _ enthusiastic and a little messy, lips sliding over one another and noses bumping, tasting his laughter against her tongue. Grappling at his shoulders uselessly, she squeaks when his hand finds her hip, pulling her closer.

“I would have printed you a thousand jerseys if it meant you having this enthusiastic of a reaction every time.” Bellamy murmurs, sweeping her hair out of her eyes before leaning over to press another kiss against her eyelid.

She can’t help but snort a little at that. “Hey, you’re the one who got all hot and bothered by a  _ pep talk.  _ Don’t blame this on me.”

That gets another laugh out of him, fingers winding in her hair. “You do give really,  _ really  _ inspirational pep talks though. That was the appeal, for me.”

Smiling into his chest, she sways slightly in his grip, wondering if it’s the same for him too; falling without having to brace herself for impact, easing into something that had been a long time coming. No room for hesitation- just a surety that this was something good. That this was right. That this was something as safe and warm as she felt in Bellamy’s arms.

Dropping a kiss against his collarbone, she pulls away, linking her fingers around his neck instead. “You know what did it for me? Those juice boxes. I really, really liked those juice boxes.”

He groans, rolling his eyes over at her. “And here I thought it had something to do with my ineffable charm and wit.”

“That too.” She laughs, leaning down to grab at the shirt that had fallen to the ground in their haste. The fabric is soft against her fingers when she slides her nail along the tag, yanking it off carefully before shoving it into her pocket. She’s already imagining the possibilities for his jersey,  **BLAKE** in black, coach under his name, just like hers; matching jerseys for when the first match comes around. “Now c’mon. We have work to do now.”


End file.
